


May

by Kyrillion



Category: Titanic (1997)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:34:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22337884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyrillion/pseuds/Kyrillion
Summary: "Jack hadn’t drawn her since the Titanic. He said now that he knew he had time to it was a luxury to work her out in little pieces, to sketch her hands until he knew he had their fretful elegance, her eyes till he caught playfulness or reverie right. In any case, he hadn’t the paper for a full study."
Relationships: Jack Dawson/Rose DeWitt Bukater
Kudos: 32





	May

Jack hadn’t drawn her since the _Titanic._ He said now that he knew he had time to it was a luxury to work her out in little pieces, to sketch her hands until he knew he had their fretful elegance, her eyes till he caught playfulness or reverie right. In any case, he hadn’t the paper for a full study.

“I’m not saying I wasn’t a regular Nostradamus to leave these with Tom,” he said, meaning the sheaf of drawings he had picked up from a New York friend. “The hell of it is, Rose, I’d happily scrub out half these pictures I was so pleased with at the time, and have the paper back! Only charcoal don’t shift.”

"If you soaked it in water? It’s heavy paper, maybe the charcoal would come off and the paper would dry out."

He kissed her for her genius and they tried it, begging the loan of a roasting pan from Mrs. Holden to try the experiment on the picture that had most fallen in Jack’s estimation (‘I was cock-of-the-walk when I did it, and this kid looks like Little Nemo!’). But in the morning the marks were as firm as ever.

Rose watched Jack’s face and wondered if he was thinking about his lost Paris drawings locked away at the bottom of the ocean. They were better work. It felt obscene to mourn paper and charcoal when so many lives were gone, and she knew Jack felt ashamed of the twist of pain he felt thinking about the lost work.

Jack filled up the blank space left on the old drawings by a younger, more careless version of himself.

Now Rose watched with nervous interest as the art teacher paused at one, skimmed past another.

“You’re inclined to the arts yourself, Miss. Andrews?”

“As an audience only, I’m afraid, Mr. Bell.”

He glanced up with a politely-disguised flash of curiosity or maybe disbelief. She didn’t want to be notable.

“My father was a draughtsman, sir. He liked to visit the galleries, and he found me more amenable than my brother.”

That worked. A girl or woman operating under her own steam was suspect; a passive product of a man’s shaping was acceptable.

Jack’s drawings were spread across Mr. Bell’s already-messy bench. He had just finished a class when Rose found him.

Bell was definitely paying more attention to the newer work. He had nodded slightly as a detail of Rose’s hands curled in sleep. She felt a swell of pride at Jack’s growing talent - and at her own ability to recognise it. He also paused at the nudes. He couldn’t be unused to seeing such nakedness but perhaps Jack’s subjects caused the pause. Rose hadn’t asked if these, like the Paris models, were prostitutes. She hadn’t been able to because there was one woman who appeared several times, and there was a softness in her gaze and that Rose recognised, with an unexpected gut-wrench of jealousy, as intimacy with the artist. She had gritted her teeth and kept them in. Jack drew best what he loved.

“Mr. Dawson has been in Paris, you say? I fear he is an admirer of Monsieur Tolouse-Lautrec’s?”

Rose ducked her head, using her fizz of annoyance to show as shame. “Sir, I know there are – undressed girls – though I’ve only seen his portraits and sketches – I know that figure work is something you do at –“

Mr. Bell accepted her girlish embarrassment. “Quite right. Some of this is rather _bawdy_ work, but while Mr. Dawson is untutored, and he has instinctively chosen good subject matter for his development. We would have to educate him on the proper ways to conduct such studies!”

Go to hell, thought Rose. “You mean you’ll take him as a pupil?”

Mr. Bell didn’t answer immediately, continuing to leaf through the drawings. Rose thought of the way Cal would seek to invest his statements with more importance by making everyone wait for them. She also knew nerves were making her unfair.

“This is fine work,” Mr. Bell said eventually. “Your Dawson certainly has technical aptitude, and some of these studies are quite sensitive. Yes, I’d like you to send him along.’

“Oh – sir – er – has he a place? Then?”

“That’s something for a discussion between gentlemen, Miss. Andrews. You said he’s - twenty-four years of age?”

“Twenty-three, sir.”

“Mm. Perhaps not best suited to our bachelor’s degree program on that count, quite apart from – ah – his economic situation. But it would certainly be a shame for raw talent to be squandered or ruined for lack of discipline.”

He was looking at the drawing of a child Jack had called Little Nemo. It looked none the worse for its bath, but Jack would have said it looked none the better either.

“Yes, send Mr. Dawson along. I’ll let my secretary know to expect him.”

When Rose gathered up the drawings in a grateful fluster she manage to include several of the blank sheets of paper.

She met Jack at the factory gate. She hadn’t seen him since the previous day; he had set out at dawn and she didn’t remember stirring, though Jack said she always woke a little to make confused noises and give him a bleary kiss.

He looked drained. As always, the fluttering nervousness that rose the longer they were apart settled and roosted within her. He loved her. It was still true. In her imagination he was a moving picture star she could hardly trust herself to speak to without stuttering. In person he was real and human and hers.

She kissed him as fiercely as public decorum would allow and he tucked his coat around her, allowing her to snuggle close. Their clothes were warm, shabby but good quality, from the charitable donations to the Titanic’s survivors. But all the same she was powerfully aware of the warmth of his skin close to hers. She had worn her good dress for the meeting, and there was little corsetry in the Empire-line cut to keep her belly and thighs feeling the curves of his. He shifted a little against her and risked another kiss.

“You always make getting home so urgent,” he said, grinning.

Rose was thoughtful “Do you think it’s because of the Night?”

“The night? What’s because?”

“I mean, the Night,” He got it the second time. They never used words like ;the sinking', less because they didn’t want the attention of people knowing they were _Titanic_ survivors, though that was true, and more because it felt too raw and awful to be contained in a lightly-said word. “I feel like I can never be close enough or too warm against you.”

“I think that’s kinda all lovers,” he said, and she shivered pleasantly. They might be living in sin, but a lifetime’s ingrained coyness took longer than a month to shift, and there was something deliciously crude in the word lovers.

“Jack,” she said, removing herself from distracting closeness to look him in the face properly. “Don’t hate me.”

He scanned her expression. “I wanna say I never could, Rosie-May, but I know you too well to think you’re not capable of doing something real hard to forgive. Like jumping back onto a sinki – uh – well, you know.”

He cut himself off with a grin and she grinned back. They were finding out how much they were able to talk directly about the Night. They were lucky to have each other to understand. The evening they had visited Jack’s friend Tom they discovered how hard it was to talk to ordinary people about even the barest facts of the events. Rose could see Tom’s wife Assumpta thought she was a little frail and fey in her manner. But Assumpta hadn’t felt the knife-water, and floated among the corpses.

“I haven’t done anything quite that dumb in a while,” she said.

“A whole month! Is it a record-smasher?”

“Listen Jack, I’m – I’m serious. I did something that – well, I suppose I betrayed your trust, or went over your head or something. But nothing ever has to come of it. You can be angry and ignore it and that’ll be an end.”

He still didn’t believe she was going to say anything that would upset him. She stepped away a little more, keeping her hands on his waist but giving him more space to react as he wanted.

She went on, “I took your drawings to the school of art, the one in Manhattanville.” She ran her eyes over his expression. “I know you said you weren’t ready, but I’m scared, Jack, I – I see you coming from here a little more tired each day, and I’m scared for you. For both of us. I love you for it. But if I wasn’t around you’d be off on the gold trail or working your way up the West Coast on penny portraits…”

“You think I never worked an honest day before?” Not angry, but not quite joking either. “Or I need someone to push me forward?”

“I’m thinking selfishly, Jack. I love you too much to see myself become a cage.“

“Rose, that’s the last –“

“Maybe not now, but how long? We made a deal. We both thought we were leaving the other behind. And we knew the only thing that mattered was that whoever was left make the most of their time. Do enough living for two.” She shook her head. She could see her own pain at talking about it reflected in his eyes. She spoke more softly. “We got a miracle. That makes the promise even more important. There’s only now.”

He gave his little eye-brow nod that meant he was thinking what to say next. Eventually, he said. “OK. So you think I should go to art school.”

“I think you should make the most of your ability. I don’t know another way to do it.”

“OK.” Another pause. “C’mon, let’s walk. And what did they say?”

“I spoke to a Mr. Bell. I went and asked at the desk who would be the best person to speak to regarding new admissions.” She didn’t have to add, _Rolling out my most imperious manner_. Rose’s upper-class ability to make people feel they ought to be falling over to help had been useful before now. “And I found Mr. Bell gathering his things as students left class. They were a jolly-looking set, all chattering about light and shade –"

“All right, kid, save the sales job for later.”

“And he looked at your work. Oh, don’t look so alarmed, I’m not a fool I left out the ones that are a bit – risqué –“

“Risque!”

“Well. He found your work quite outrageous enough without them!”

“Yeah?”

“No, I mean – he was patronising, “young Mr. Dawson clearly doesn’t know the difference between a model d’artiste and a one-legged lady of the night.”’’

“We’re going to have to work on your vocabulary if you’re going to start telling bawdy jokes.”

“Oh shut up. Anyway, the point is he thought is was good work, particularly your recent drawings, and he wants to see you.”

They were at the river by now and paused to look out over it. “Same water,” said Jack. He’d said the same before but didn’t seem to be able to get over the connectedness of _here_ to _there_. “A month ago, a few hundred miles…”

For weeks the city had talked only of _Titanic_. Every headline, every diner gossip. She and Jack had hidden from it all.

“It’s… I think the only thing worse than the endless headlines and talking is that it going away." Rose said.

“Speak for yourself, I won’t miss the news boys shouting about the – it.”

“No of course not… But I mean to say… it’s becoming a story for everyone already. Part of me wants to grab them and shout, ‘It was real! It happened! You can’t just carry on as if it didn’t!” I think I understand that actress now.”

“Who? Oh – the one doing the moving picture? I thought you said she was a posing, heartless witch?”

“I did _not_ , I just… questioned her motivations. But I’ve been thinking about her, despite myself, and I think I see it now. If the world is turning you into a story, you want to, to claim it. Not just the money.”

“I guess. You know, you oughta write, Rose.”

And you ought to paint, she thought, but she knew him well enough now to let it lie until he brought the subject up himself.

Jack always got grumpy in the gap between getting home and eating and Rose had learned to let him alone to wash and doze while she slipped downstairs to help Mrs. Holden prepare dinner.

Later, sitting on their narrow bed in the room which had cost them the price of a gold-plate ring and their immortal souls to procure, Jack said,

“It was high-handed, Rose.”

“I know.”

“Cages can be made of someone’s expectations as well as their dependency.”

“I know. You know my love isn’t dependent on you doing anything.”

“I guess I do.”

“And I’m not trying to steer you to please myself, or because I want you to be anything than what you are. If I thought you’d be working in a factory if I wasn’t around I’d be happy to let it be.”

He nodded. “But… you see, I could say the same about you and your family.”

“What?”

“You know I think you should see your momma. Mother. But it’s not my place to go and do that for you, it’s your choice.”

Rose dipped her head, real shame burning up in her cheeks. She had thought she was pure in her motivations in going to the school, that she wasn’t trying to rule Jack or override his autonomy. Just doing what his job drained him of the time and energy to do for himself.

He went on, “But I guess you’re right. It’s easy to hide behind duty and, y’know, work, and not – not do something because it’s risky –“

“Jack Dawson, I shouldn’t think you’re scared of anything!”

“Well, I guess my secret’s out.”

She was overcome with tenderness at his little-boy vulnerability, and she couldn’t help but lean forward to touch a kiss to his soft mouth.

“I better get drawing, then," he said, sliding his hand up her ankle and under her skirts. "Since I got fresh paper and all. Warm enough for posing?”

“Mr. Dawson, that’s the _last_ kind of drawing you need to produce since they’re quite useless for one’s portfolio.”

“Good practice, though,’ said Jack, other hand fiddling with the bow at the back of her dress. “I have to work quickly before I lose all interest in charcoal.”

“I seem to remember you were very professional, Mr. Dawson, and not quick at all. I got quite stiff.“

“You weren’t the only one,” said Jack and did something quick and startling with his hand under her skirts that made her gasp at the same time as giggling.

“Stop that,” she hissed, pulling away to start undressing. “I can’t rip another dress.”

A rip these maid-less days meant an hour spent in poor light, trying to make neat stitches, and – with her crude sewing skills – a significantly shabbier-looking dress. However much she wanted to be naked, she had learned to take her clothes off carefully and hang them first.

All Jack had to do was shrug out of his suspenders and pull his shirt off. "You still fiddling?" he said, because he knew it annoyed her, then, “I shouldn’t touch you without a proper wash anyway.". Rose could only manage a groan of protesting desire, fingers trembling with frustration at her stocking hold-up until Jack came to half help, half decidedly _unhelpfully_ embrace her.

The nights on _The Carpathia_ had been a strange numb time, crowded with strangers and sorrow. Rose didn’t know if the people she and Jack had become this side of the disaster were in love. She couldn’t even remember how to care. Then they had alighted at Chelsea and drifted in the wake of a crowd of fellow third-class survivors to a mission supplying donated clothes and hot soup, had wandered away from the activity and into the upper rooms of the building before finding one sufficiently quiet and realising they had been looking very urgently for somewhere to fuck.

But tonight she brought him off in her hand. Jack murmured into her neck, “We need to get rubbers somehow, if we’re going to keep doing this. Just in case we, uh, get carried away. I prefer doing it in your hand than into a balloon, though…”

You needed a wedding certificate. Rose didn’t want to marry Jack to obligation, nor he her to poverty.

"Never mind that now," said said and pulled Jack’s hand back between her thighs. Jack obediently resumed his kissing and paid attention, and by-and-by Rose’s own gasping and wriggling pleasure reached an apex and he kissed her unfocused mouth until she was done.

“You know, I didn’t know girls could feel it like that,” he said, “I always felt kind of guilty, like girls only let a man do it to them.”

“Is it – inelegant?”

“You’re kidding! Yeah – and about the most beautiful thing I can think of.”

“Maybe you should draw that.”

“Now wouldn’t that raise a few eyebrows at the ol’ Conservatoire!”

Then Rose pulled on a pair of Jack’s socks against the night’s chill, and Jack declared Rose-in-nothing-but-men’s-socks to be the most glorious thing he’d seen, and he drew her like that on the stolen paper, and May crept on promisingly towards June.


End file.
